clothes in lifeless crêpe. It would probably be autumn, he thought sadly, before Flora would be in her glad rags and doing the Foxtrot or the Twinkle. He liked the thought of Flora dancing, and lingered on it. Then he wondered what she would be like when she laughed.
He glanced at the Notes of the Week column. Opening the Narberth Nurses Fête last week Miss Lewis of Trefilan paid quite a neat little compliment to our town, which she described as ‘a wonderful place’. Her eulogy was inspired by the remarkable fact that in connection with nursing services the town raises between £400 and £500 yearly, which we should imagine stands unique in Pembrokeshire.
Then it occurred to Wilfred: he could call at White Hook with the invoice for the funeral. He decided to do it as soon as possible, but not too soon or it might look as if he was being greedy or avaricious. Though it might be better to appear avaricious than lustful. But he was a man too, not just an undertaker! And at that thought, Wilfred stood up.
There were no newspaper squares again on the nail in the wall. By damn, that was awkward. It was difficult to remember to rip up old newspaper when there was a funeral to organize. Both he and his da always forgot to tear up old copies of the Radio Times or the Narberth & Whitland Observer. Wilfred would have to use a piece of today’s Observer, so that when his da sat down by the fire this evening to read the paper and found the centre pages missing, he would be under no illusions as to what Wilfred had done with it.
3
The Red Dictionary
The bar of Narberth Rugby Club was straining with the mountainous bodies of the rugby team. The walls were lined with ancient team photographs and there were silver trophies proudly and confidently displayed in glass cabinets. Wilfred had come for a swift half before lunch.
‘Price is here!’ someone roared.
‘The handsome bugger’s come to bury us!’
‘Well done, lads,’ Wilfred called back, raising his hand in greeting and referring to the morning’s win against St Clears.
‘They didn’t stand a chance,’ the tighthead prop replied. ‘You should have seen them – like gnomes they were!’
Jeffrey, Wilfred’s old schoolfriend, came up to him with a pint of pale ale.
‘Wilfred Price – you bugger!’ enjoined Jeffrey, patting him on the back and handing him his drink. ‘I’ve heard the latest – congratulations! You never even mentioned you were seeing Grace Reece.’
‘No,’ said Wilfred cautiously.
‘All right, you two?’ said a man, shoving past and spilling beer.
‘All right, Sidney? You back to the Army soon?’ asked Jeffrey.
‘That’s right,’ Sidney replied curtly, walking by and getting lost in the throng.
‘Never liked that Sidney,’ Jeffrey confided to Wilfred, ‘too fly for me. So,’ he continued, supping ale, ‘I heard the news you’re marrying her.’
‘No, no.’
‘But Mrs Evans at the Conduit Stores said.’
‘Wilfred Price!’ hailed Norman Collins from a nearby table. ‘Have a pint before you get to the altar.’
‘No, Collins,’ Wilfred rejoined, waving his hand.
‘So, then you’s not marrying her?’ Jeffrey queried, looking up at Wilfred.
‘No …’
‘But you asked her?’
‘Yes,’ said Wilfred guiltily. There was a sudden round of applause from the players at the bar.
‘Nice legs on her,’ Jeffrey commented, adding somewhat doubtfully, ‘Nice legs isn’t everything, mind.’
‘No, that’s exactly what I thought myself.’
‘Was she upset?’
‘Yes. I feel dreadful about it.’
‘Nothing is simple,’ said Jeffrey, stroking the red whiskers of his droopy moustache. ‘Mind, you would have had Doctor Reece as your father-in-law.’ Jeffrey nudged him. ‘That would have been a barrel of laughs. Would have been like living with Moses.’ After a pause, he asked, ‘You all right, Wilf?’
‘Aye.’
‘That’s what happens, you see,’ Jeffrey said, sipping his pint, ‘when you spend all your time locked up with corpses in a workshop making coffins; you’s like a child in a sweetshop the moment you sees the fairer sex.’
Wilfred wiped the froth from his mouth with the back of his hand; the beer was warm, familiar and comforting.
‘True enough.’
‘Now you’ll have to tell the whole of Narberth.’
‘No, I won’t – now that I’ve told you,’ retorted Wilfred.
‘Come to the Young Farmers’ dance with me next Friday,’ Jeffrey offered. ‘There’s a charabanc of girls coming from Llawhaden.’
‘They’ll be straight back in the charabanc when they sees you.’
‘Well, you’d be lucky if they let you bury them!’
‘You still seeing Elizabeth?’ asked Wilfred.
‘No, seeing Clementine.’
‘Clementine?’
‘Everything changes,’ said Jeffrey.
‘Come again?’ mouthed Wilfred, nodding towards the rugby players in the